


Vestigial

by theladyscribe



Series: Icarus [3]
Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Pittsburgh Penguins, Wingfic, seemingly unrequited crush
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-28
Updated: 2017-05-28
Packaged: 2018-11-06 02:33:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,760
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11026776
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theladyscribe/pseuds/theladyscribe
Summary: Phil doesn't have wings. Not anymore.





	Vestigial

**Author's Note:**

> This was supposed to be story number two in this series, but instead it is number three. Minor content warning for non-graphic mention of medical history. Thank you to hazel_3017 for the beta, as usual.

There are five players on the Pittsburgh Penguins with wings. Carl, of course, with his wingspan wider than he is tall, has the biggest, large enough for flight. Patric and Geno both have wings big enough for a little lift, but nothing like Carl's. Geno claims his wings give him a boost when they play sewerball; he also blames them when he loses, and smacks people in the face with them when he thinks they deserve it, which is often. Dales and Rusty both have fairy wings, small enough that they can be tucked under pads and a jersey without any trouble. On particularly bad days, Carl is jealous of them.

The problem with mixing flight wings and hockey is that wings are fragile, made of fine bones that can break easily if you're not careful. Carl has been lucky, mostly; his worst wing injury happened when he was with the Rangers, and it ultimately resulted in his meeting Patric for the first time.

He knows other people haven't been so lucky.

*

Phil doesn't have wings. Not anymore. Carl knows the rumors — everyone in the hockey world knows — how Phil's wings didn't appear until college, small ones, fairy wings, and he had them removed shortly after. He could have left them, but he chose not to.

Carl doesn't understand the choice, but it would be rude to ask. Especially when his own wings are so big, among the largest in the NHL. He catches sight of Phil's scars in the locker room sometimes, twin marks on either side of his spine. He wants to touch them, to feel the smooth white scar tissue beneath his fingers. He feels ashamed even for thinking it, disgusted by the impulse.

He doesn't ask about it; it's none of his business. But he still wonders.

*

After the Cup win, Carl doesn't see anyone from the team except for Patric until they head to Toronto for the World Cup, and even then, it's just Olli and Geno and Sid from across the faceoff dot. There'd been talk of them having dinner together between the round-robin and the knockout rounds, but it never coalesces into a real plan.

The day of their game in the knockout rounds, Carl gets a text from Phil wishing him luck. He answers back that he hopes Phil's hand is healing well. He doesn't say he wishes Phil had been playing for Team USA, even if it's true.

Sweden loses to Team Europe, and when Carl finally checks his phone after their game and the subsequent team dinner, there's a text from Phil.

 **Sucks man __** _,_ it says. **I was rooting for you.**

Before Carl can respond with a thank you, another message appears: **You headed to Pittsburgh now?**

 **In a couple days. Mats and I are hanging out tomorrow** , he answers back, following Patric into their hotel lobby and toward the elevator. 

**lmk when ur here, I'll make dinner.**

Carl snorts. **You'll order pizza, you mean.**

**I order pizza like a champ tho.**

**A Stanley Cup champion** , Carl reminds him.

Phil replies with a series of emoji: 

Carl chuckles, his wings fluttering, which gets Patric's attention in the small elevator. " _Who're you talking to?_ " he asks, a smirk on his face like he already knows the answer.

" _No one_ ," Carl says, locking his phone before Patric can even think about stealing it from him.

" _Tell Phil he has to arm-wrestle me before he can be your new best friend_ ," Patric says as he steps out of the elevator and onto their floor.

Carl rolls his eyes and decides not to pass the message along as he follows Patric down the hall. He and Phil aren't _that_ close.

*

True to his word, Phil has Carl over to dinner once he's back in town. As promised, it's pizza, from the place that was on the list Sid seems to send to everyone when they first arrive in the city. Say what you will about Sidney Crosby, but he has great taste in delivery.

Carl and Phil sit on Phil's back deck and eat pizza, shooting the shit while Stella alternates between begging them for food and chasing a ball Phil throws for her. When the pizza is gone, Carl takes over entertaining the dog, letting her chase him while he lifts himself off the ground and glides around Phil's expansive back yard.

"She wants you to pick her up!" Phil yells from the deck.

Carl does as instructed, picking Stella up on his next lap around the yard. She yips excitedly and tries to twist in his hands so she can lick his face as they fly. Carl can only manage two laps before he decides that he's in danger of dropping her.

He glides to a halt at the edge of the deck, depositing Stella on the porch before climbing up the steps himself. Phil hands him a beer, which Carl takes with a nod before settling down on a lawn chair.

"You've got a good yard for flying," he says.

"Yeah," Phil says, a little distracted because he's wrestling over a rope toy with Stella. "Mandy insisted on it. Said she'll come visit more often if she knows there's a place to stretch. Especially if she can't find good places in the City."

Carl nods; he loved New York, but he doesn't miss the regulations it has on flying. "We used to take the train out to the Island, or go upstate, on days off. I can send her some suggestions, if she wants."

"She'd like that," Phil says. He lets Stella win their wrestling match, and she trots off with her prize dragging the ground between her feet.

Carl nods at the dog. "Is Amanda the one that usually takes her in the air?"

"Of course." Phil's voice is wry. "I told her not to spoil her, but she never listens to me. And now, Stella thinks anyone with wings is here to take her flying."

"D'you ever go? Flying, I mean." The moment the words are out of his mouth, Carl wishes he could take them back. Phil freezes, his face a mixture of emotions Carl can't read, and Carl knows he's fucked up. "Sorry," he says hurriedly. "Sorry, I didn't —"

Phil shakes his head. "It's fine. I, um." He scratches his chin, a day or two's worth of beard growth rasping against his fingers. "I haven't been in the air since I was at Minnesota."

"Oh." And because Carl hasn't stuck his foot in his mouth enough tonight, he says, "With someone else, or — I mean, of course it was with someone else. You couldn't have —"

Phil pauses his scratching and stares at Carl for what feels like an eternity. Carl knows he's turned red with embarrassment, but he doesn't look away or hide behind his wings, even if he wants to.

"With someone else," Phil says at last. He looks back toward Stella, who has passed out in the shadow of the grill, rope toy between her front paws. Carl assumes that's the end of the discussion, but Phil surprises him. "What's the story you've heard? About my scars?"

Phil doesn't glance back at him, but he sounds curious rather than weary.

"Fairy wings that didn't come in until college," Carl admits softly. "There were rumors about other things, but — I never felt like it was my business to find out more."

Phil grunts and turns to him, bright-eyed. "It's only half-right," he says before taking a long drink from his probably-warm beer. "They didn't come in until college, but they were never big enough to even be fairy wings. The docs said they probably wouldn't have ever sprouted if it hadn't been for my surgery and the medications I had to take."

Carl tries not to appear startled at the mention of Phil's cancer; as far as he knows, Phil never talks about it outside of team-sponsored hospital events, and even then, it's quietly, with the kids they're visiting, not with any of the adults in the room.

"Do you regret it?" Carl asks.

"Nah. I didn't grow up with them, and they didn't sit right, and they never really felt like _me_ , you know?"

"Oh." Carl _doesn't_ know — he can't imagine himself without his wings, such an integral part of him — but it's clear Phil never felt that way about his. Carl supposes it's the opposite of his recovery from shoulder surgery a couple years back; he'd been grounded until everything healed properly, and he spent a lot of time feeling unsettled and disjointed, just wanting to be back to normal. It seems trite in comparison to having wings sprout while also going through a medical crisis.

Carl takes a deep breath, wondering if he's mucked things up. Phil tends to be pretty affable, but even when he was helping Carl with his molt, they didn't talk about Phil's wings. Carl hasn't brought it up before because he knew it was rude to ask, but here he is now, asking invasive questions and probably making a fool of himself.

After what is certainly too long of a silence, Carl blurts, "Sorry. I shouldn't have brought it up."

It's hard to tell in the glare of the setting sun, but Carl thinks Phil has raised an eyebrow in confusion. "It's fine," Phil says. "I don't talk about it much because people don't really want to know. People who don't have wings always wanna know why I had mine removed because they're jealous I had them in the first place, and people who've got 'em act like I've betrayed everyone or something. Easier just not to say anything."

"Still. Sorry."

"Another beer?" Phil interrupts Carl's swirling thoughts with a nudge of his foot on Carl's thigh.

Carl shakes himself. "Sure."

"I'll be right back." Phil heaves himself up, waking Stella from her nap when his chair scrapes on the deck. He clasps a hand on Carl's shoulder as he heads back into the house, Stella trotting behind him.

Carl tries to relax again, running their conversation over again in his head while he waits for Phil to return.. He feels like he might have passed a test, getting Phil to open up a little. He's fairly certain that's a good thing.

Phil comes back without Stella, two bottles of blueberry ale in his hands. He passes one to Carl and salutes him. "Cheers."

"Cheers."

Phil settles back on his lawn chair, and the two of them sit, watching the sun as it slips below the tree line.


End file.
